


don't care if he's guilty

by cxrranam



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, Dry Sex, Face-Fucking, I suppose, If you squint I suppose, M/M, Mild Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sad Ending, Sex on a Car, Unrequited Love, it's just porn, not my finest moment, rovinsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8318371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cxrranam/pseuds/cxrranam
Summary: Joseph Kavinsky hated Ronan Lynch. He hated him almost as much as he hated waking up in his underwear and sniffing up a line of coke. That is to say, he didn’t hate him, but had the suspicious feeling that he most certainly should. He had no doubt that Ronan Lynch felt the same about him. It was evident that Lynch’s burning hatred was a cover, a beard for something much prettier which lay beneath. Joseph Kavinsky wanted to pull away the mask like layers of his clothes. He wanted to tear them into pretty fucking pieces.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In which Jess writes tacky, tasteless Rovinsky sin. I hate myself. And this work. It's tacky. And tasteless. Alas, it's been a while since I succumbed to the darkness of this ship, so cut me some slack.
> 
> Title taken from The Devil's Backbone by the Civil Wars.

Joseph Kavinsky hated Ronan Lynch. He hated him almost as much as he hated waking up in his underwear and sniffing up a line of coke. That is to say, he didn’t hate him, but had the suspicious feeling that he most certainly should. He had no doubt that Ronan Lynch felt the same about him. It was evident that Lynch’s burning hatred was a cover, a beard for something much prettier which lay beneath. Joseph Kavinsky wanted to pull away the mask like layers of his clothes. He wanted to tear them into pretty fucking pieces.

 

When Kavinsky stopped at the lights, his Mitsu purring beneath the pedal, and leaned his head back against the seat, he had no doubt in his mind that Lynch would pull up beside him in a matter of minutes. 

 

He came out like this every other night, acting like he didn’t want a fight. Ridiculous, that’s what it was. To think that Kavinsky didn’t know the real reason was a game fooling nobody, though perhaps it was Ronan fooling himself. 

 

Maybe even he didn’t know that when he came out racing every other night, it wasn’t to fight, but to fuck. 

 

Yeah, he probably didn’t even know it himself. Probably didn’t want to admit to himself that he was gay. Or that Joseph Kavinsky was the only one to give him what he wanted. Ronan was looking to be hurt, to be fucked up with bruises and bites, and Kavinsky was the sharpest weapon to do that to him.

 

So. As the BMW pulled up beside his car, K let a slow smile spread over his face.

 

It was sickening, really, how predictable he had become.

 

By Lynch’s turbulent expression, half hidden by slightly tinted windows, he felt as sick by it as K did.

 

“Really Lynch,” K said, leaning his arm out of the window. “We have to stop meeting like this. Dick Three will think we have something going on.” He peered coyly over the top of his white sunglasses, a wicked smile lighting up his eyes. Ronan’s jaw clenched.

 

Kavinsky feigned surprise. “Oh dear me, he has no idea you’re out tonight, does he? What’s he going to think when you come home unsatisfied and sour? Will he offer to give you a…  _ helping _ hand?” K made an obscene shaking gesture with his fist.

 

Ronan’s lip curled. “And why would I come home like that? I’ll be quite satisfied when I win your month’s allowance.”

 

“Ha!” Kavinsky smacked the side of his car, felt it sting his palm as he laughed. “The girl’s cocky.”

 

Ronan shrugged. “Do we have a deal?”

 

“A full circuit for my month’s allowance? What do I get when I win?”

 

“Nothing,” Ronan’s foot pressed against the pedal and his car growled. “You won’t win.”

 

The lights changed to green, and the cars shot off into the night. 

 

For the first thirty seconds, Kavinsky let Ronan pull ahead, only by a foot or less. The Mitsubishi chased him down the straight section of road. At the first turning, K pressed his foot to the acceleration, and let the car roar itself into life, headlights screaming against the tarmac roads. It was even now, K realised, the wind ripping itself through his open window, so even that when he guided his car to the right, it smacked into the side of the BMW and screeched with all the intent of demons from the ninth circle of Hell. 

 

Despite the hissing wind and the horrendous screeching, Kavinsky heard Ronan spit curses at him, aggressive, cruel, twisting,  _ arousing _ . God, what he wouldn’t give to have that filthy mouth around his-

 

He hit the BMW again, let it screech round the next corner, and the next. Ronan was fighting between swerving off the road and letting K wreck his prized car into a scratched-up mangled mess.

 

He swerved off the road at the finish line, and Kavinsky soared over the line they had started at. His brakes screeched as he performed the most illegal U-turn and half-parked the car nose-to-nose with Ronan’s messy BMW.

 

He was fuming. K could almost see the smoke coming from his ears, and he should have been scared, probably. Probably should have felt anything other than the satisfaction he got after getting any sort of rise out of the boy.

 

“What the fuck was that?” Ronan seethed. His teeth were bared as he straightened from inspecting the damage and blazed over to Kavinsky to punch him smack in the face. 

 

K stumbled back, the back of his knees hitting the bumper of his car. His ears rang and his jaw  _ ached _ deliciously. At the second hit, he could taste blood as it flooded his mouth. A split lip gushed blood. Kavinsky loved the way it hurt the same way he loved the way smoke hurt when it curled in his lungs. Ronan’s hands fisted in his shirt and pulled him up nose to nose.

 

“You fucking cheated, you piece of shit- you wrecked my car, you fucking cu-”

 

“Oh keep talking dirty, Lynch, it makes my dick feel magnificent-”

 

“Shut the fuck up-” Ronan’s hands tightened in his shirt, his expression flickering.

 

Kavinsky laughed, and his tongue darted out to lap at the blood dripping from his lip. He wondered if Ronan realised his eyes had followed the movement.

 

“Hit me again,” he said. “If you’re so fucking angry-”

 

Ronan dropped him as if he were a ticking bomb, alarm and then disgust colouring his features. There was blood on his knuckles. It looked almost… handsome. Sickeningly beautiful. Just right for someone as fucked up as Ronan Lynch.

 

K leaned heavily against his car. “I won.”

 

“The fuck you did,” Ronan snarled. “You destroyed my car.”

 

Kavinsky chuckled, turning his face away. “Like you can’t just dream up a new one.”

 

He almost wished he could have filmed the way Ronan’s expression turned to horror, stricken as if Kavinsky had delivered a return blow with his own fists. “What did you just say?”

“Oh please,” K took a wavering step towards him, the smirk he held aching his lip. “Like you didn’t know I knew. I know so much about you Ronan Lynch, even stuff you won’t admit to yourself.”

 

Ronan turned his back, feigning nonchalance, and bent over to inspect the damage on his car again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

K saw his chance, and took it, slinking up behind Ronan and letting his palm connect solidly with the meat of his ass. Ronan spun and lashed out with his fist, but Kavinsky was buzzing from the coke and the racing and he blocked the hit easily. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was a flush making its way up the side of Ronan’s neck.

 

“Don’t you dare fucking touch me-”

 

“That only for Dick Three, huh? Or that redneck trash?” Kavinsky’s face split into a leer. “Do  _ they  _ know you’re a fag? Do you call their names when you beat off in the shower?”

 

Ronan spat in his face.

 

“That’s what I thought,” K said as he let the saliva slide from his nose. “If they could satisfy you, you wouldn’t come out here in the middle of the night looking for trouble-” He dropped his gaze to Ronan’s skin-tight jeans, so evidently bulging. Ronan pulled his shirt down. 

 

“Racing make you horny, Lynch?” Kavinsky asked, looking up through his eyelashes. “Or is that just me?”

 

K stepped minimally closer, eyes on Ronan’s reactions. He didn’t tense, didn’t fight, even as Kavinsky sidled toe-to-toe with him, feeling his breath heat up the air between them. “I can make this go away-” he said playfully, and grabbed a handful of Ronan’s crotch. Ronan’s hand squeezed his forearm, but didn’t move him. He was silent. Listening. 

 

Kavinsky licked more blood from his split lip. “Just say the words and I can hurt you exactly the way you want to be hurt. I can fuck you, and fuck you up just the way you’ll like it” - he began to stroke his hand from side to side around the perfect outline of Lynch’s cock, then leaned up for their lips to nearly brush each other - “Hard. Rough. Enough to have you fucking  _ keening _ when you’re impaled on my cock. Enough to have you press your fingers into the bruises I leave and be unable to forget me. Lynch, I could give you things they can’t. I can give you the pain you know we both deserve. We’re fucked up. We’re mistakes. I can make them all go away.”

 

He didn’t know which bit of his spiel changed Ronan’s mind, or maybe it was the way his hand was applying just the right about of pressure through his jean zipper to make him unbearable hard, but that was when Ronan Lynch kissed him.

 

All tongue and teeth and blood and saliva, it was hard to even call it a kiss. It was more a surge of emotion, of feeling. A fight between them. As everything would always have to be. A battle, a war, a rivalry. Kavinsky should hate the way Ronan clenched his fists in his collar and pulled him closer closer closer until their faces were mashed together, biting at each other’s lips, stroking their tongues over each other.

 

He should hate the way hurting Ronan Lynch made him feel: powerful and weak, dead and alive, broken and fixed together all over again.

 

He should hate the way every touch sent satisfaction sizzling through his veins. This was quite potentially the most beautiful mistake he had ever made. It was like someone had thrown a Molotov Cocktail at his field of Mitsubishis and set them all alight. Untamed and dangerous and alive- and

 

Ronan fell to his knees without a word of warning. 

 

For a moment, K thought he’d fainted, but then he tilted his head up to look at him, swollen lips slick with K’s blood or his own blood or their  _ spit _ and shucked Kavinsky’s low-hanging jeans down to his ankles before he could think twice. 

 

“Such a good boy,” Kavinsky crooned. “A fallen prince without his kingdom.” He curled his hands around Ronan’s neck and jammed his thumbs under his chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. “Kneeling before his king.”

 

Kavinsky used one hand to push his boxers down, let them pool around his calves. His cock sprung free, already hard - he was electrifyingly aroused. Anyone could drive past and see them, _Dick Gansey_ _could drive past and see them_. What would he say to seeing his pet’s knees pressed against gravel, a cock filling his little whore mouth?

 

The thought made him groan. Then he guided Ronan’s head forward, and let his lips stretch around a new intrusion.  _ Fuck _ \- he was inexperienced but- fuck that made it better. His tongue touched tentatively to the tip, lapping at the slit as soon as he realised how much K liked it, how it made his hips thrust forward, nearly fucking his throat, how his head tilted back and he offered profanities to the inky sky.

 

His hands were balled into fists, pressing into the road. Once, as K began to thrust shallowly into his mouth, hands wrapped again around his throat and pressing against his airways, Ronan’s hands fluttered instinctively to his zipper. K watched for just a second as Ronan palmed himself, eyes closing and- he groaned around K’s dick. 

 

It was nearly enough for him to cum right down his throat, but he stopped just in time and threw Lynch onto the road. On his back, Ronan looked up at him, utterly helpless, already dangling on the edge of a precipice as K kicked off his jeans and underwear and straddled him, naked body against clothed. He fisted his hands in Lynch’s shirt, dragged his upper body off the ground, then smacked him full in the face.

 

Ronan cried out. He struggled under K’s body, but after the second hit, and a roll of K’s hips against his, the struggle quickly turned into squirming, then humping. 

 

“God, you’re so fucking easy,” K snarled. His whole body rolled, causing friction between them. Ronan whimpered feebly. 

 

“Speak up,” K snapped. “Tell me.”

 

Ronan didn’t have to ask what. His mouth opened instantly, and he began to talk. “You can hurt me- like nobody else. That’s why I come out at night. I want you to hit me- I want you to fuck me up- please please  _ please- _ ”

 

Kavinsky slid from his body, unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them aggressively down his legs. He wasn’t even wearing underwear, and his cock was heavy and leaking, curled upwards to his stomach. K gave him a quick painful twist with his dry hand, and Ronan yelped.

 

“Get up.”

 

The order seemed to take Lynch by surprise and he lay there for a second too long. Kavinsky curled his hand around his neck and dragged him up to his feet before turning him around and smacking his face into the bonnet of his prized BMW. Ronan groaned, especially as Kavinsky grinded against his ass. Bare to the cold, Ronan must have felt it when Kavinsky’s hand cracked against his skin. 

 

“Do you want this, Lynch?”

 

“Y- yes-”

 

K spanked him again, twice, hard. His hand smarted; he could only imagine how Ronan’s ass felt. Good, by the sounds he was making against the metal of his car.

 

“I thought you didn’t lie.”

 

“I’m not-” Ronan gasped. 

 

Kavinsky should hate the way his chest lurched at Ronan’s words. It was a mistake. To get himself so attached to a train wreck like Ronan Lynch, someone who would never love him, never treat him as an equal, as a friend. But he loved the way that Ronan lusted. The way his fucked up brain decided this was a good way to let off steam. K spanked him again, and squeezed tightly around Ronan’s neck, aiming for the blood supply this time. 

 

He didn’t have to like him. He just had to remember him.

 

When K pushed the blunt, leaking head of his cock into Ronan’s ass, he was expecting it to feel raw, but Ronan nearly screamed, his breath hitching at the dry pain of it. But K didn’t stop, he spat on his hand and worked the rest of himself into Lynch, near groaning at the way his ass fluttered, clenching around the intrusion.

 

And then he began to fuck into him, slowly, then faster, faster, harder- Ronan’s body shook against the car, his nails scrambling against the smooth metal for any purchase to make it hurt less and pleasure more.

 

K fucked him. And he should hate the pain, the way his dick would feel tomorrow - dry and abused - but all it served was the memory of Ronan Lynch’s gasps and shudders.

 

“This isn’t supposed to feel nice, Lynch,” K grunted. “If you wanted nice you could get that trailer fag to make sweet love to you in his hillbilly home- you came here to get wrecked and- and I am going to ruin you- the same way that the memory of you will wreck me-”

 

Ronan trembled. His hands were trapped between his body and the car, unable to move to jack himself off, but K was already there, stroking, thumb swiping over the slit, still leaking obscenely for the amount of pain he was in. Ronan didn’t mind it. Worse still, he was getting off on it-

 

“You fucking whore,” barked Kavinsky. “You little filthy slut! You’re loving this-” 

 

Their skin slapped together, penetrating the night air with its obscene sounds. 

 

“Fuck-” Ronan muttered, his back arching. “I… I hate you… so much-”

 

And that was all the warning he gave before he came in creamy stripes up his own paintwork. He didn’t let himself bask in bliss for long. K wasn’t even surprised when he was shoved backwards and away by Lynch’s shaking forearms.

 

“Get off me-” he snapped. “Don’t fucking touch me again.”

 

K raised his hands defensively, but bowed his head. Then, he turned, swept his clothes up from the ground and opened his car door.

 

He stopped and turned back. “Listen, Lynch…”

 

“Fuck off-” Ronan snapped. He was pulling his jeans on, knees barely able to hold himself up, wincing all the way. “You don’t come near me again, okay?”

 

“Lynch-”

 

“Nobody hears anything about this, okay? Not even your fucking… pack of cokehead dogs, you hear?” He was nearly hysterical, covering it with a facade of anger.

 

Kavinsky looked at him over his open car door.  _ Really looked _ . Fucking train wreck of a boy. He didn’t hate anything about Ronan Lynch, truly. He hated the way Ronan Lynch hated himself. But Ronan Lynch didn’t listen to cokeheads like Kavinsky, unless he was hissing filthy things in his ear. 

  
K grit his teeth and slid into his car without a word. Some things were better unsaid, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done?  
> I’ve fallen in love with a man on the run.  
> Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I’m begging you please,  
> Don’t take that sinner from me,  
> Oh don’t take that sinner from me.


End file.
